The next day was worse.  Slone found work irksome, yet he held to it.  On the third day he rested and dreamed, and grew doubtful again, and then moody.  On the fourth day Slone found he needed supplies that he must obtain from the store.  He did not forget Holley’s warning, but he disregarded it, thinking there would scarcely be a chance of meeting Bostil at midday.

There were horses standing, bridles down, before Brackton’s place, and riders lounging at the rail and step.  Some of these men had been pleasant to Slone on earlier occasions.  This day they seemed not to see him.  Slone was tingling all over when he went into the store.  Some deviltry was afoot!  He had an angry thought that these riders could not have minds of their own.  Just inside the door Slone encountered Wetherby, the young rancher from Durango.  Slone spoke, but Wetherby only replied with an insolent stare.  Slone did not glance at the man to whom Wetherby was talking.  Only a few people were inside the store, and Brackton was waiting upon them.  Slone stood back a little in the shadow.  Brackton had observed his entrance, but did not greet him.  Then Slone absolutely knew that for him the good will of Bostil’s Ford was a thing of the past.

Presently Brackton was at leisure, but he showed no disposition to attend to Slone’s wants.  Then Slone walked up to the counter and asked for supplies.

“Have you got the money?” asked Brackton, as if addressing one he would not trust.

“Yes,” replied Slone, growing red under an insult that he knew Wetherby had heard.

Brackton handed out the supplies and received the money, without a word.  He held his head down.  It was a singular action for a man used to dealing fairly with every one.  Slone felt outraged.  He hurried out of the place, with shame burning him, with his own eyes downcast, and in his hurry he bumped square into a burly form.  Slone recoiled—­looked up.  Bostil!  The old rider was eying him with cool speculation.

“Wal, are you drunk?” he queried, without any particular expression.

Yet the query was to Slone like a blow.  It brought his head up with a jerk, his glance steady and keen on Bostil’s.

“Bostil, you know I don’t drink,” he said.

“A-huh!  I know a lot about you, Slone. . . .  I heard you bought Vorhees’s place, up on the bench.”

“Yes.”

“Did he tell you it was mortgaged to me for more’n it’s worth?”

“No, he didn’t.”

“Did he make over any papers to you?”

“No.”

“Wal, if it interests you I’ll show you papers thet proves the property’s mine.”

Slone suffered a pang.  The little home had grown dearer and dearer to him.

“All right, Bostil.  If it’s yours—­it’s yours,” he said, calmly enough.

“I reckon I’d drove you out before this if I hadn’t felt we could make a deal.”